


i don't need another map of your head

by seditonem



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when they analyse the solution a few days later, Yusuf swears and his mind pops up with the thought <i>Oh, how did that get in there?</i> and Arthur wonders why he ever allowed himself to be a test dummy for the newer, stronger stuff Yusuf wanted to make for his dream basement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't need another map of your head

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: language, sexual antics  
> disclaimer: fictional, non-profit. really old.

When they analyse the solution a few days later, Yusuf swears and his mind pops up with the thought _Oh, shit, how did that get in there?_ and Arthur wonders why he ever allowed himself to be a test dummy for the newer, stronger stuff Yusuf wanted to make for his dream basement.

But it’s too late for regrets now and Arthur’s too busy not being overrun by everyone else’s thoughts to even try and bitch about his situation.

/

It’s like this: the human brain is full of a lot of deep, dark corners, and one day when Arthur was riding a kick, falling through layers of dreams, he stumbled into the darkest one and woke up gasping for air, like he’d met something worse than death and come back. He doesn’t remember any of it, only that it felt like clinging treacle against his skin, impossible to remove or wade through.

But when you look in deep, dark corners, you find things. And they stay with you.

So when Arthur wakes up, unable to remember, he breathes hard and tries to calm down. There’s sweat on the back of his neck, collecting and cooling on his collarbones too. He swings his feet down to the ground, allowing his hand to go to his pocket to find the die. Just touching it makes him feel a little better, even if he can’t roll it in front of the others.

 _He looks worried_.

“Arthur?” Eames asks. Arthur looks up. Eames has that half-smile on his face that Arthur usually associates with bad dreams and half-hearted quips in conversation.

_He’s sweating, what happened to him?_

“What did you just say?” Arthur frowns. His head pounds.

“I said ‘Arthur’,” Eames replies, after a second. The half-smile is waning like a crescent moon.

 _No need to stare, you’re the one acting weird_.

“I’m not acting weird,” Arthur mutters, and leaves the room before anyone can say anything else. He’s two flights of stairs down before he realises Eames’ lips didn’t move when he said _No need to stare_.

Arthur does the only thing he can think of, and calls Cobb.

/

“It’s like – ” Arthur begins, stops, looks out the window and tries again. “It’s like I can read people’s thoughts. As if they’re talking to me without moving their lips.”

“What, everyone?” Cobb asks, looking confused. Arthur can hear his thoughts buzzing, like he’s in two conversations at once, and tries to ignore it. _I knew Yusuf was trying too many different things at once,_ Cobb thinks, distractedly.

“Yes, everyone,” Arthur sighs, turning back to the window. “Even you.”

Cobb swears quietly.

“Well, I guess you’re going to be a great asset to whatever team you work with,” he says, after a while. Arthur tries not to be vindictive and say, _well I was hoping you’d be a bit more help than that._ Cobb has kids. Cobb has a life outside all this shit.

Cobb’s hand rests on Arthur’s shoulder. “I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he says. His mind echoes the same thing, but Arthur looks a little deeper – deeper than he should, probably – and sees _corners of the mind you shouldn’t look in, buried deep, this is what they were afraid of_ before he withdraws.

“Neither do I,” Arthur admits.

He doesn’t sleep on the flight back.

/

> _Christ fuck it I hate turbulance why is that woman not wearing her seatbelt_

I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful before except in porn how is she so lovely

> Please God I just want to sleep can I just go to sleep now

Arthur’s mind swims and he staggers into the bathroom, only just closing the door before he throws up into the toilet. The migraine he’s acquired from being in such close contact to so many other people is splitting his head in two. His face looks drawn in the mirror; those dark circles under his eyes are almost bruise-like now. A couple more days of this and he might just start to lose it, he thinks, and the thought is so terrifying that he has to push it away for the moment.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, under his breath, leaning hard on the edges of the sink. “Fuck.”

/

Whatever he was expecting when he landed again, it was not Eames arriving to pick him up from the airport. It happens as if it’s the most normal thing in the world; Eames appears next to him, takes his bag, and walks with him out of the automatic doors. His face is blank. Arthur’s too busy trying not to be completely knocked out by the solid wall of thoughts that everyone around him has to thank Eames, so they stay silent until they get to the car.

“Is it true, then?” Eames asks, his voice light. It’s a false lightness, Arthur decides.

“Your favourite colour is orange, your favourite number is forty-two, and you prefer linen suits to any other kind, even if they do crease like hell, and yes” - Arthur sighs here – “I can read minds.” He reaches into the overnight bag beside him and takes another two aspirins. He’s probably exceeded the recommended dose by about twelve times by now.

“Ah,” Eames remarks.

_Shit._

Well, Arthur thinks, amused despite his headache – at least there’s one good thing to come out of the whole debacle.

/

That night, Arthur goes back to his hotel room and on the edge of his bed, undoing his cuff-links while he waits. Saito owns the hotel, of course - and the safety of it is why Arthur is staying there - and he probably owns the guards at the front doors and most of the people who’re sleeping in the rooms, too; but that’s not why Arthur’s waiting. He waits till the hallway’s empty, then gets up, opens the door, and walks to the door of the next room. Quietly, he leans against the door, shuts his eyes, and listens.

> _What a beautiful melody I hope I’m not playing this too loud what time is it goodness why are all these lights still on is that rhapsody in blue I hope the kids are in bed it’s too late to phone them now isn’t it but I hope David remembers to give them their presents oh God where’s my phone it’s not under the pillow where did I where did I where did I --_

Arthur draws himself out of the thoughts like he’s breaking through the surface of the sea. It takes him a good minute to start breathing properly again, and then the thoughts are still there, but not overpowering. On a hunch, he imagines a brick wall coming down between his mind and the woman who’s thinking – and there is blessed silence.

The silence lasts until a cleaning lady walks along a nearby corridor and her thoughts about rubber gloves ruin the calm in his mind. Arthur blocks her out as well, almost amazed at how fast his mind works now that he’s got the hang of it, and then goes back to his room, mentally exhausted. At least it’s possible to still keep his mind silent if he wants to, he thinks, even if it does seem to give him an extraordinarily bad headache.

/

The next day proves worse than the one before.

Arthur’s head still hurts from the mental activity of the previous night, and when he gets to the rest of the team their complex plans about the dream they need to get the son of the Prime Minister of Britain into make his brain feel like it’s throbbing with pain.

“Could you all just shut up for a minute?” Arthur shouts, two hours into the day and already beyond exhaustion. Yusuf, Ariadne and Eames all stare for a good minute ( _what’s got into him?_ Ariadne thinks), and then only Eames holds Arthur’s gaze. “I, uh, need some fresh air,” Arthur says, abruptly, and flees.

Standing on the roof of the building, nothing between him and the sky, Arthur tries not to panic. His whole way of life seems to be falling about his ears, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Below him, the whole of the city is thinking, watching, listening, loving and hating, and it’s all coming straight through to him, like he’s some sort of giant radio transmitter. His mind is being invaded by everyone else - and he’s invading their minds, too.

“Don’t jump, dear, it’d be over-dramatic.”

Arthur hears Eames’ thoughts about the weather about a minute before he hears him speak, so he doesn’t turn to look at him. The thoughts of weather turn swiftly to thoughts of nice suits to thoughts of why tulips don’t smell.

“Seriously, tulips?” Arthur blurts out. Eames looks amused.

“It’s not very sporting, you poking around in my brain like that,” he chides Arthur. _I don’t particularly mind, though – to anyone who didn’t know you can read minds, our conversation would sound very amusing._

“You don’t mind?” Arthur frowns. Eames bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment, looking across the city.

_No, not really._

Arthur is stunned into silence for a moment. He takes a sideways look at Eames and then, before he can think twice, he dives into his mind.

And is blocked by a solid wall of _Nice try, Arthur._

“What the fuck?” Arthur frowns, rubbing his nose despite the fact that he didn’t just collide face first with a brick wall. It certainly feels like he did; dream-world pain all over again. Arthur touches the die in his pocket, just for reassurance.

“I don’t want you poking around whenever you want,” Eames grins. “Well, in my mind, in any case.” There’s a positively predatory glint in his eyes, Arthur thinks.

“How did you do that?”

Eames shrugs. “It didn’t seem like to much of a stretch to imagine that I didn’t want you in my mind, so I did it. And would you believe it, a little bit of imagination seems to do _wonders_ ,” he explains, and finishes with a smile that is nothing short of gloating.

Arthur’s jaw goes tight.

“Well, thank you for that enlightening experience,” he mutters, and leaves the rooftop, still rubbing his nose.

“Don’t worry, your nose isn’t bleeding,” Eames calls after him.

It doesn’t occur to Arthur to wonder exactly what it is that Eames doesn’t want him seeing in his mind until he’s back with Ariadne and Yusuf, and by that time he’s already scrambling to try not to step into their heads as well.

/

Before the whole thing happened, Arthur remembers, when he fell asleep it was quite a peaceful affair. He’d dream his own dreams, in his own space.

Now, however, everyone else’s thoughts spill into his mind while he’s not looking, and when he wakes up he can’t tell what he dreamt about and what someone else was having a nightmare about. One night, in the midst of walking through a post-apocalyptic New York, someone throws a paper plane at his head and is simultaneously eaten by a giant banana.

That’s just unfair, really, Arthur thinks, when he wakes up. There should be limits to the amount of shit a person has to put up with in one lifetime.

The dream-sharing dilemma is illustrated rather vividly one evening when Arthur is dreaming he’s sitting in a quiet Italian restaurant, drinking red wine.

“Mind if I join you?”

Eames appears out of nowhere and sits down before Arthur can say yes. He pours himself a glass of wine and raises an eyebrow at Arthur’s raised eyebrow.

“How did you get in here?” Arthur asks.

“Same way everyone else does,” Eames says, and drinks half a glass of wine. “You don’t lock your back door very well, do you?” He shakes his head in apparent disbelief.

“But we’re not in a shared dream,” Arthur begins, and Eames waves his hand dismissively.

“We don’t need to be in a shared dream. You get all our thoughts – so, since I’m in the room next door at the hotel, dreaming about being in a restaurant, I can just walk on in and sit down. Technically, I’m allowing you into my head, but it looks like I’m in yours.”

“Ok,” Arthur splutters, holding up his hands, “this is way too complicated for something that’s happening while I’m properly asleep.” He drinks more wine. It tastes faintly of cherries, but Arthur thinks he’s probably imagining it. He’s never felt like he appreciates wine properly, which bothers him a little, so it would figure that the wine in his dreams is better than normal.

“Good wine,” Eames says, suddenly.

“If this is your dream, why can’t I hear what you’re thinking?” Arthur asks. Eames smiles, as if to say, _so now you want to talk business, hmm?_ and shakes his head.

“You’re confusing yourself now,” he replies, like he’s talking to a child. Arthur resists the temptation to fume and gets up. “Oh, come on,” Eames laughs, “you can’t honestly say you’d prefer to be out there, walking through everyone else’s dreams?”

Arthur doesn’t bother replying. The door of the restaurant is already melting into strands of spaghetti.

/

Two days later Arthur walks into the warehouse and is greeted by absolute quiet.

“Did something happen that I’m not aware of?” he asks.

Ariadne grins. “It’s working,” she states, and he thinks he sees her resist the temptation to high-five Yusuf. The chemist smiles at her and turns back to his work, but Arthur feels like he catches the faintest thread of relief from Yusuf.

“What’s working?” Arthur asks, feeling off-balance, which is becoming a reoccurring thing lately.

“Eames taught us how to block our thoughts from you,” Ariadne says over her shoulder, already back at work. “We didn’t know if it would work till you walked in, but I suppose what with all the dream-creating we had better control than we thought. After all,” she unfolds a blueprint and hands him a pen, “we only have to take care of our own mind. Not everyone else’s.”

Arthur looks around the room. “Where is he?” He still can’t quite adjust to the new sense of calm in his head; it strikes him that this was what it was like before Yusuf put him into that dream, and for a moment he feels utterly lost.

“Surprise,” Eames grins, hanging slightly off the doorframe. He’s wearing a white suit, Arthur notes. And it’s linen. _Creases like a bitch_ , Eames thinks, _but utterly worth it._ He winks at Arthur. “Liking the peace and quiet?” he asks. His mind is utterly silent again.

“Yes, thank you,” Arthur replies, stiffly, and turns back to the blueprints. That day goes fast, almost scarily so, and Arthur’s head feels blissfully empty. It’s just him and the work they’re doing, except when Ariadne or Yusuf occasionally slip up and a small landslide of thought hits him.

That night, Arthur sleeps better than he has in months.

/

The next night is not nearly as peaceful.

“You seriously need to lock your back door,” Eames sighs. He’s standing next to Arthur on the top of a building, looking down at the cars below them. Arthur feels oddly free. Eames nudges him with his elbow. “I’m serious. Just because you’re sleeping you can’t let your defences down.”

“I’m aware of that,” Arthur replies, bitingly, and turns to look at Eames. The movement makes him slip, and before he knows it, he’s falling off the building and waking up, gasping for air.

Arthur sits up in bed, the sheets twisted around his waist, and shuts his eyes. The light filtering through the blinds makes lace patterns on his bed.

 _Didn’t mean to wake you_ , Eames thinks.

The next day Arthur changes hotel rooms.

/

They split up for the rest of the month, each doing private research while they wait for an appropriate time to get the mark. Arthur spends his time working with the information Eames gave him about the boy, and gets himself a placement in security with a couple of well-made forgeries. He mostly keeps himself to himself; he rents a tiny apartment in the middle of nowhere, where there’s hardly anyone around to think, so he can pick and choose when he wants to go out and expose his mind to the rest of humanity.

By the time they’re ready and the team is back in one place, he’s a little more used to blocking thoughts out. The worst is over – the initial rush of human emotion that people keep back from the world, the dark thoughts and deep, burning desires – and now all that remains is for him to keep a solid mental brick wall between himself and everyone else.

He’s almost worked out the rules of his new ability, or handicap, as he sometimes thinks it: there’s the initial, day to day thought stream that he can hear instantly when he’s close to someone, and then the deeper thoughts closer to the centre of the consciousness, which he has to work to get to. Sometimes he practices diving for the deeper thoughts, which is exhausting, but he’s almost sure he can steal into anyone’s mind by the tenth time he’s done it.

Apart from Eames.

And that worries Arthur a little.

It shouldn’t, he realises, because Eames is doing his work for him; he’s keeping his thoughts to himself, so Arthur doesn’t have to waste energy trying to block him out too. But at the same time, it seems uncharacteristic of Eames to keep himself to himself as he does. Arthur’s already thought about the possibility of a shady past that Eames doesn’t want coming to light – but still. _But still_. It nags at him.

In the ten years or so that Arthur has known Eames they’ve exchanged insults and almost school-yard rebuffs, and occasionally Arthur’s felt like they were just covers for something else, something neither of them wants to put their finger on just yet. Yet he knows hardly anything about Eames, about his past, about how he first got into their line of work. It’s all blocked from him, utterly different from Yusuf, Ariadne, Saito and even Cobb, whose minds are practically open for him to pick at, like fruit that has burst with ripeness, its seeds waiting to be taken.

Sometimes he needs to listen to the thoughts around him, just to remind himself that yes, he can hear it all, it’s Eames who’s keeping it back, and not Arthur, who’s too afraid to venture into Eames’ mind. He listens to the women who drink to numb the pain and the men who drink to top up their courage. And then, when he’s too tired to listen anymore, to hear their pathetic, disgusting, saddening thoughts, he goes back to his room and tries to sleep.

/

In the middle of the night the phone rings, hacking straight through Arthur’s dream like a machete through a blade of grass.

“What.”

“We need to move. He’s flying home tomorrow and has a wrist operation the day afterwards. It should give us all the time we need.”

Arthur hangs up, sits up, and rubs his face with his hands.

Outside, it begins to rain.

/

“And now, if you just lie back and take a few deep breaths,” Arthur says, trying to maintain a winning smile while the glasses he’s wearing threaten to fall off his nose.

“Ok,” the boy says. _Does this dude even know what he’s doing?_

Arthur blocks him out solidly while he attaches him to the PASIV, then shuts the door, locks it, nods to Yusuf, and lies down.

/

He’s surprised to see that the whole thing goes off without a hitch. They do what they were paid to do – extract personal information to help the opposing party (hopefully) win the next election – and get out before the doctors get in and start the operation. Not too difficult an operation, but one that requires two layers and a lot of concentration. Arthur takes the back stairs and slips into the car they had waiting for them, balling up the doctor’s white coat in one hand as he goes. Wouldn’t do to leave anything incriminating behind.

“Arthur,” Eames says, suddenly, and then stops himself before he can continue. Arthur frowns.

Very slowly, Eames leans over and takes the pair of glasses off Arthur’s nose.

At that moment Yusuf blares the horn really loudly and the entire car jerks and swerves to the side. Arthur ends up sprawled over Eames’ lap, his face pressed against the cream coloured trousers he’s wearing.

“Feel free to use my thigh as a pillow for as long as the urge grips you,” Eames says, quietly. Arthur doesn’t need to see him to know he’s smirking.

/

That afternoon, while it pours with rain, they pack up the kit and wipe down the warehouse for prints. Ariadne leaves for the airport in a taxi while Yusuf gets rid of the car, and then he, Eames and Arthur head for the ferry.

“You staying in France?” Arthur asks, noncommittally, but Eames still seems to take it for something it’s not, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in what could almost be called a smirk.

“For a few days,” he replies. They’re leaning on the railing of the ferry. Somewhere inside, Yusuf is probably failing to resist the urge to gamble. “But I’m sure that if you really wanted to, you could find out where I’m going after that.”

Arthur doesn’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t move his gaze away from the water below him, chopping at the side of the ferry, greener than liquid jade. He breathes in, out, in, shuts his eyes, and vaults over the brick wall around Eames’ mind.

It’s like being punched by sensation. Arthur stumbles and hardly notices when Eames catches his arm and takes him inside to sit down. He’s almost certain his vision swims with the weight of Eames’ consciousness (some of which, he notes, is spelled incorrectly). It’s like he’s falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, bypassing sections of Eames’ mind as he goes. Political views flash past him, then sexuality, then ethics (a small section), until Arthur distantly registers Eames pushing him backwards.

The memory of kicks is so deeply ingrained in his whole body that Arthur sits up instantly, fully aware and completely out of Eames’ mind.

“Oh, Jesus,” he pants, like he’s just run a marathon and sprinted the last two miles. His hands shake.

“When I implied that you could hijack my mind, I didn’t mean _get lost in it_ ,” Eames mutters. They’re attracting stares, Arthur notices, but he can’t stop his hands shaking. The background noise of the other minds is a dull roar in his ears.

“Well, I wouldn’t have gotten lost if there was any order in there,” he bites out in reply, and stumbles over to a vending machine. The bottle of water he buys is gone in four gulps, and by then he feels more like himself again.

It’s only when he can breathe steadily again that he notices something is wrong. It’s like there’s something on his skin, a memory of some kind that he saw but didn’t recognise, clinging gently to him like the faintest strand of a cobweb on his finger; like a woman’s perfume, lingering on his jacket. Arthur blinks and shakes his head. The feeling persists. He catches Eames’ eye, and there’s a hint of panic there, he realises.

“No,” he whispers, without thinking, and before either of them can move, Arthur has rushed straight back into Eames’ head.

_Shit that’s done it he’s seen everything what did he see how much did he see -_

The wall slams down and Arthur has to put his hand onto the vending machine so as not to be thrown backwards by the impact of it as he’s thrown out of Eames’ mind.

They don’t speak again till they get to France.

/

Eames doesn’t say anything when Arthur gets into his taxi with him. He doesn’t say anything when Arthur follows him up to his hotel room, and he continues to say nothing when Arthur shuts the door behind them and puts down his overnight bag.

“When were you going to tell me?” Arthur asks, finally.

“What, that I’d seen this happen before?” Eames replies. He sounds oddly bitter. “God, Arthur, you weren’t _there_. The man went mad. I couldn’t risk telling you that.”

“That’s how you knew how to keep me out and let me in. That’s how you knew how to get into my dreams and let me into yours. _You’ve seen this all before_ ,” Arthur says, his heart thumping against his ribs. Eames sits down on the bed and rests his chin on his hands for a moment.

“Yes,” he says, simply. “I have. I thought perhaps if I just acted like it was fine and showed you it was possible to control it, you’d be alright.”

“What about the other man?” Arthur asks.

“He was a target,” Eames shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “We didn’t know what to do. We kept him with us for a few days, trying to fix it, but he went mad. Couldn’t control his mind. He didn’t have the training you have, which is, I suppose, why you’re still sane. We panicked. No one knew what to do; we’d never seen anything like it before. It was my first job.”

Arthur stares out the window. He’s aware that this is about as much personal information as he’s probably ever going to get from Eames - Eames, who is all talk and smirks and then disappears off into nowhere after a job, and Arthur won’t see him again for a year or two. It’s always been like this - well, up till inception, up till they all started sticking together because suddenly they all became big players, only taking the biggest jobs.

“And if I go mad?” he asks, quietly. Eames is standing behind him, suddenly, and his hand on Arthur’s shoulder feels warm, even through two layers of clothing. Arthur wants to lean into it, but his body freezes up. It occurs to him that he might be going mad already - what happens if it has started without him realising it?

“You won’t,” Eames says, abruptly, like it’s the most simple fact in history.

“I’m so tired,” Arthur whispers. It feels like he’s just cut himself wide open with the remark, laid himself bare for Eames to see. He’s never done that before, but it seems like Eames’ unusual openness is rubbing off on him. Eames’ fingers wind into the soft fabric of the lower back of Arthur’s shirt and he rests his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder. Something has been crossed, Arthur realises, but he’s not sure where or when they crossed it.

“I know,” Eames replies, “but you won’t go mad. Your mind is stronger than that.”

Arthur wonders for a moment if he’s dreaming. He rolls his die on the windowsill, staring at it, and puts it back in his pocket before Eames can comment on it.

“It’s just like building dreams for the first time,” Eames continues, “you just need to practice. Your defenses will grow stronger as you work.”

“Ok,” Arthur nods, hollowly. The backs of his eyes feel sore, like he hasn’t slept in days. He thinks Eames sighs, and then moves away, back to the bed.

“You hate it, don’t you? The lack of control you have with your own mind, now,” he says, softly. Arthur can’t meet his gaze.

“You have no idea,” he replies shortly, undoing his cuffs and rolling them up.

“You have all the control you used to have,” Eames shrugs, leaning back on his hands again. “You just don’t know you have it, yet.”

That, Arthur thinks, makes no sense. He stops short and stares at Eames, who raises an eyebrow, a direct dare. “Ok,” Arthur agrees, almost smiling despite himself.

Five minutes later they walk into the hotel bar and sit down. Eames orders two whiskeys while Arthur lets his mind wander the room, looking for interesting thoughts. “Right,” Eames begins, having taken a sip of whiskey. “God, that’s strong - ok, what have you tried so far?”

Arthur shrugs. “Just what I need to keep myself from getting a splitting headache. I can keep a few people out at a time, dip in an out of someone’s head if I need to see something they’re not thinking about directly at the moment.”

“Have you tried shutting them out one at a time?” Eames asks, drawing a circle on the bar with the moisture from a nearby bottle.

“Obviously,” Arthur replies, failing to keep an acidic tone out of his voice. Eames smirks and holds his hands up in defeat. Arthur sighs and does as he’s told. Now that he allows the streams of thought to rush through him, they’re not overpowering anymore. Just simply there, like music in the background.

“Good,” Eames says, quietly; “now, start blocking them out, one at a time, like you’re pulling their plugs.”

One by one, almost without him even having to think it, the thoughts stop. Around his mind, Arthur imagines huge walls going up, blocking the sea of thoughts so that they part around him and travel past him. Serene silence envelops his mind.

Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling like he’s climbed a mountain. Just then, another person walks into the bar, and the whole thing crumbles down again. A shard of pain spins spasms behind his eyes and Arthur has to press against his temples; it feels like his head’s about to come apart at the seams.

“Hmm,” Eames nods, sipping at the whiskey. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.”

Arthur blinks and stares blankly at the people in the bar. Most of their thoughts are inane, he notes, and is about to look away when he catches sight of a young woman with dark hair who looks oddly out of place in the hotel. She’s not dressed up enough to look like she belongs, he realises - her hair is down, longer than the fashionable length, and it’s wavy. She looks a lot like Ariadne, Arthur thinks, and then comes to a complete halt.

 _Ariadne._ What had she said? _After all, we only have to take care of our own mind. Not everyone else’s._

“Maybe,” Arthur begins, but the thought is too promising, so he begins before he can explain to Eames. If he just concentrates on protecting his own mind, like Eames and Ariadne do, perhaps he can keep everyone else out the same way.

“Well?” Eames frowns, the ice in his glass clinking. “You look like you’ve just discovered a cache of previously undiscovered Saville Row suits in exactly your size.”

Arthur just grins. His mind is blissfully free.

“Told you so,” Eames smirks, and drinks the rest of his whiskey.

“How do I know I can keep them out?” Arthur suddenly asks, swirling the remains of the drink in his glass.

“I don’t know that for sure,” Eames shrugs. “But I’ve become so used to keeping my mind protected that I’ve almost forgotten about the defenses being there. My guess is, you’ll be the same after a little while. It’ll become so routine that they’ll just stay there, unless you want them to come down.”

Arthur nods and finishes his drink. He’ll never say it out loud, but he has to admit, sometimes Eames does know what he’s talking about.

/

Arthur leaves the hotel that evening feeling more free than he has in weeks. He walks along the streets of Paris with a definite spring in his step, and books himself into a tiny little hotel with the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept on.

/

Eames drags Arthur to dinner the next evening, forcing him out into the city. They have the best steak Arthur’s ever eaten in his life and red wine that warms the tips of his fingertips, and then Arthur finds himself not returning to the hotel he’s staying in, but following Eames up to his room. On autopilot, Arthur shuts the door and looks across at Eames, who’s shrugged off his jacket already and is sitting on the bed as if he owns the entire place.

“Is it working?” Eames asks suddenly, and he sounds nervous, like he actually cares. Arthur walks across to the minibar and tries to find something to drink, but he can feel Eames’ eyes on the back of his head wherever he moves.

“Yes,” he says, “but I had a couple of slip-ups.”

“They’ll take care of themselves in the long run,” Eames nods. Arthur feels awkward, out of place; he’s not used to having this much contact with Eames. “Do you want some practice?”

He’s tired and oddly sore from walking around Paris all day, but for no good reason, Arthur says yes. There’s something in Eames’ eyes, the way he looks at Arthur, that makes him feel like he can’t say no. Eames nods at the chair by the window, so Arthur sits down and shuts his eyes.

It’s still like falling down a rabbit hole, but this time it’s slower, more graceful, since Arthur’s not diving in, just stepping in. He allows himself to wander, occasionally coming across walls that Eames has put up, presumably around past relationships or such stuff.

Most of what he sees are just images, like photos of places Eames has been to - dark lights in Mombassa, the seaside at Brighton - and Arthur’s so engrossed in them that he hardly notices when he’s reached the end and strayed into something entirely different.

His own face looks back at him.

Arthur stares.

He remembers this day: this was the day Eames found Arthur’s hotel room (how, Arthur will never know) and burst in while Arthur was dressing to tell him that Mal was dead. For some reason, the memory is blurred, like a photo that’s been taken out and looked at and refolded so many times that it’s become creased and worn. He can make out his half-buttoned shirt and his braces, hanging loose around his elbows, and the hint of surprise on his face.

Turning around brings him to another memory: the first time they worked together. The Arthur in the memory is wearing a slightly shabbier suit than normal, and his tie is flying out above him, probably because he’s falling off a building. This was their first kick - they fell off a building almost side by side, and Arthur remembers he stared at Eames as they hurtled towards the ground.

This is too personal, Arthur realises, and extracts himself from Eames’ mind, not stopping to gather the implications of what he’s just seen. He feels like he’s invaded something incredibly personal, like walking in on a woman doing her make-up in the mirror by herself.

“I should go,” Arthur says, before he opens his eyes.

“Should you?” Eames asks, a hint of a challenge in his tone. Arthur looks at him, at the strong line of his shoulders and the set of his lips, and before he knows it, they’re kissing, hot and wet and undeniable. Arthur’s fingers dig into Eames’ shoulders and he opens his mouth, letting Eames map him out with his tongue.

Arthur can feel the thoughts bleed out of Eames, and he knows Eames wants him to hear them --

_I want to fuck you so you’ll feel it for days_

\-- but it’s too much, too soon, so he turns his head away and pushes Eames’ thoughts away while Eames kisses down the side of his neck, and then Arthur pulls away and gets his jacket.

Eames sighs quietly, puts his hands in his pockets, and lets Arthur go. Arthur sees him staring out of the window before he shuts the door and takes the elevator out of the hotel.

/

Arthur takes a short job in South Africa with two guys he’s never met before. They don’t treat him like he’s special, which Arthur takes as a good sign (he prefers not to be remembered too clearly by people he works with, or for), and when he does a quick search of their minds he finds nothing relating to telepathy. He feels guilty when he looks, though - he doesn’t even know the men.

When he gets back to Paris, it only takes him five minutes to discover Eames is still staying in the same hotel room. Arthur swears quietly under his breath and dithers about it for a whole afternoon.

/

As it happens, they run into one another unexpectedly. Arthur’s on Pont Neuf, staring out across the water and feeling a bit like Jason Bourne in his long coat, when someone stops beside him.

“How was South Africa?” Eames asks, his hands on the cold stone in front of them.

“Too hot,” Arthur replies, shrugging slightly. He’s never liked the place, preferring France and Italy when he can get to them.

“And -- ?” Eames is never one to dither around the subject, so Arthur finds it surprising when he doesn’t finish the sentence. He quirks an eyebrow at Eames and goes back to staring at the water.

“Fine,” he says. “Occasional slip-up, but nothing migraine inducing.” _You were right about it becoming easier_ , he wants to say, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place to do so.

/

Sometimes when Arthur’s alone in his flat in Berlin, he thinks about how Cobb is doing. They talk on the phone occasionally, mostly when Arthur calls to wish him or the kids happy birthday. Arthur’s never been big on phone conversations, though, so whatever he says comes out stilted and unnatural. He’s tried reading Cobb’s mind down the phone, just to get his bearings right, but obviously the distance is too great for that since he fails every time.

It takes almost a year and a half before Arthur feels completely comfortable being in a crowded space. Twice he got so exhausted that his mental walls crumbled a little, but he’s not too worried about it.

He flies to Paris for Ariadne’s birthday. He hasn’t worked a job in almost six months, and has spent those months mostly by himself, researching and reading, so at first the human contact feels a little strange. The office where she works as an architect has thrown her a party and she insists he come along for sane company, so Arthur allows himself to listen in on the thoughts of her contemporaries. It’s good practice, since he has nothing else to do, even if it is pretty dull. 

_Fancy seeing you here._

Arthur almost jumps and searches the crowd for the thinker. Eames is unmissable in a black shirt and artfully faded jeans. They stare at one another for a moment, and then the girl standing next to Eames touches him lightly on the shoulder. Arthur knows that sort of touch, the obvious flirtation in it, and something about it makes him burn a little. He’s almost sure Eames winks at him, and then looks away, back at the girl. She’s pleased, even a little charmed, Arthur notices from her thoughts, and then he looks away as she imagines what it would be like to kiss Eames.

She’s utterly wrong, Arthur thinks sourly. Eames isn’t gentle, but neither is he so rough that it hurts. He kisses like he does everything else: a little bit brash, a little bit amused. As if he knows what Arthur’s thinking, Eames looks up and smirks. Arthur can’t look away from Eames’ lips as he drinks from a bottle of beer; he remembers how those lips looked after they kissed.

_You’re blushing._

Arthur looks away.

_I’d like to see how far that blush has traveled on your skin._

He’s tempted to leave the room, but Eames will probably just follow him. Arthur looks desperately for Ariadne, but she’s talking to a friend of hers. Trying not to panic, Arthur walks out onto the balcony.

_I know you can hear me, Arthur. And if you can hear me, that means you’re not blocking me out. And why would that be, hmm?_

He knows Eames has followed him out onto the balcony, but he’s standing by the door, not even close enough to touch.

_You’re not blocking me out because you want to hear me._

“Perhaps,” Arthur says, under his breath.

_Well, since I can never be sure when you’re going to run away from me again..._

Arthur should shut him out. He should shut everyone out - it would take a second to think it, and it would be quiet and calm and he could go back to Ariadne and say happy birthday and then leave. He could catch a plane back to Berlin and stay there for another six months, lying low until - until something.

_Do you even know how hot you look in those suit trousers? God, I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first minute I saw you. I’ve dreamt about undoing your shirt, sliding those ridiculous suspenders you wear off your bare shoulders, kissing down the slope of your shoulders. I’ve thought about running my hands down your chest, undoing your belt and spreading you out naked on my bed. I’ve imagined licking at your cock until your hands are clenched in the sheets, until your eyes are unfocused with pleasure, until you’re begging for something - for anything._

He has to lean one hand on the wall to keep steady. It’s unfair that someone should be able to undo him with words, just like this. It’s unfair that Eames’ thoughts are so targeted, so precise, when everyone else just has a babble that surrounds them. Arthur can hardly hear anyone else, Eames’ mind is so loud.

_I want to fuck you, Arthur._

There is is, unmistakable, like a punch to the gut. Arthur’s pound-nails hard and panting, almost leaning over the balcony wall. His wine glass wobbles in his hand, clinking dangerously against a nearby table.

Eames stands directly behind him, one hand on Arthur’s hip, and takes the glass from him with the other. Arthur hears him drain it and put it down before Eames’ hand comes back into view on Arthur’s other hip.

“So,” Eames says, conversationally. “What do you say?”

Arthur turns his head and kisses him, even though the angle is almost painful. Eames moans appreciatively and presses against him, so Arthur is stuck between the wall and Eames. All things considered, it’s a pretty nice place to be, except for the fact that the wall is pressing uncomfortably against Arthur’s erection.

“Where are you staying?” Arthur pants against Eames’ mouth, one hand clutching at the black fabric of his shirt.

Eames grins delightedly.

/

They don’t even manage to say goodbye to Ariadne, but under the circumstances, Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care. He’ll call her when he’s not about to come in his pants like a teenager.

Eames is sitting on the edge of the bed and looking up at Arthur, his lips pink and shiny from their kisses by the time Arthur has managed to get the door shut behind them. Arthur doesn't even try to stop himself walking over to the bed, doesn't try to stop himself standing between Eames' legs and leaning down to kiss him.

"Hmm," Eames murmurs, gently pulling Arthur into his lap like he's scared he'll break. "That's nice." He undoes the buttons of Arthur's deep green shirt slowly, savouring each one, and Arthur allows him. It's odd to be undressed by someone else, he thinks, and to distract himself he slips into Eames' mind, not deep enough to lose himself, but deep enough to see exactly what Eames is thinking. There are still some walls up, he notices, but that’s Eames, and it would be a little disappointing if there weren’t. "You're looking, aren't you?" Eames says against Arthur’s neck, the hint of a laugh on his words. "That's not particularly fair."

"You practically asked me to look. I'm sure that if you didn't want me in there, you'd find a way to keep me out," Arthur replies, shrugging his shirt off his shoulders and helping Eames undo his.

Eames says nothing. Arthur's glad; he doesn't think he can deal with looking through Eames' mind and having a conversation with him at the same time, what with the thoughts he's found. They’re enough to keep him satisfied for a lifetime, anyway - mostly because they're about him.

Arthur's never been the subject of an intense, passionate relationship, not like Dom and Mal, but he's almost sure that if he was, it would feel like this. He walks through throngs of thoughts of himself and Eames, thousands of reworkings of each kiss they could have, each time they could fuck. It's like walking through a personal porn film, he thinks, as he draws himself out of Eames' mind. A particularly vivid thought about Eames sucking him off in the reclining chair just after a kick sticks with him as he leaves. He’s torn as to what’s hotter - Eames addressing him personally, telling him what he wants via thought, or him finding out from Eames’ memories.

"Seen enough?" Eames asks. He sounds cautious. His hands rest just above Arthur's belt buckle.

"Seen? Yes," Arthur nods. "Done? Not nearly enough." He kisses Eames again, tasting him, and then stands up to toe his shoes and socks off. Eames grins, but doesn't even bother waiting for Arthur to be properly naked, just pulls him back onto the bed with his trousers still clinging to his thighs like they're as desperate to touch him as Eames is. Arthur goes with it, letting Eames lave at his neck and kiss down each collarbone, his fingers working down to where Arthur's hard for him. They roll onto the bed properly and he licks down Arthur's cock - a move like that surely means he's had previous practice, Arthur notes - and then wraps his lips around the head, making an obscene sucking noise that shouldn't be as hot as it is.

"Fuck," Arthur gasps, back curving against the sheets.

"Getting there," Eames promises, his tongue doing wicked things along the underside of Arthur's cock. "Promise." He sucks at Arthur's cock a little longer, unbuckling his trousers and pushing them down, and then sucks two fingers long and deep into his mouth before spreading Arthur's thighs. Slowly, he works the tip of one finger around Arthur's hole, just enough to make him want it, and slips his index finger in. It burns - Arthur knew it would, had tried to prepare himself for it - but it's unexpected and it's not until Eames licks at his cock again that he remembers to relax. It works, though, and a few minutes later one finger isn't enough, and his skin is sticking to the bed-covers.

/

Once his hands curled into the sheets, one leg over Eames' shoulder and the other at a slightly odd angle that probably shouldn’t be possible in real life, Arthur feels his concentration slip. He breathes deeply, trying to get back some semblance of control, but then Eames crooks the two fingers he has inside Arthur, and Arthur's concentration is lost. He gives up and lets himself go, allowing himself to fall headlong into Eames' thoughts again. They're incredibly detailed, as usual - must be something to do with being a forger - and Arthur's stuck between concentrating on reality and looking at a dream Eames once had about them fucking against the wall in what must be Eames’ apartment.

"Arthur," Eames says, warningly, and Arthur opens his eyes, snapping back to reality. "Don't get lost in there." Arthur can sense the walls coming back up, but this time it's not hostile. This time it's for him, he realises. He’s still new to this, despite his new-found ability to defend his mind. He pushes himself up and kisses Eames, cupping his jaw. It's not enough to say thank you, and too much at the same time, so Arthur says nothing, and tries to align their bodies so he can get a hand on Eames' cock. Their skin is sticking together, a deep flush on Arthur's cheeks, but he can't stop touching, running his other hand along Eames' spine, along his arms, and then Eames pulls Arthur almost onto his lap and wraps a hand around their cocks.

"Sorry, I forgot condoms," he murmurs against Arthur's heart, and Arthur would laugh if he wasn't so desperate to come. Eames starts a shaky rhythm, jerking them slowly, so slowly that Arthur almost wants to howl with frustration, and then Eames is kissing him again, his hand tangled in Arthur's hair. Arthur feels himself slip-slide between reality and thought as Eames' mental wall crumbles, and when he comes, he can feel the hot haze of pleasure that Eames feels, doubling his own.

/

 

Two days later they go to London, where Arthur ends up being more of a tourist than he’s ever been in his life. From there they go back to Berlin, then to Paris, always travelling, sometimes working.

They don't talk much, Arthur notices, as he looks out of the window of Eames’ Paris apartment, but it doesn't seem to matter that much. He's been so deep into Eames' mind that he can almost still feel it, like cooling water on his skin. And Eames - well, Eames has always been able to read Arthur frustratingly well. Perhaps that's why he always seemed to know just what Arthur was thinking.

When Arthur gets a call for another job they go together, without a single word of question, and when it's done they go to Russia.

"Do you mind it?" he asks again, one day while they're waiting for a plane. Eames' suit is deep blue, almost midnight coloured, and the top button on his crisp white shirt is undone. Reading the paper like he is, he looks like some high-school kid's fantasy of an English teacher.

"No," Eames replies, distracted, as he always does. "And if I did, I’m sure I could always find a way to keep you out."


End file.
